the fire station I’d just laughed with the night before. Then I recalled what Oat had said to Captain Michael as they strode away from his office—“Long Island City . . . a two-alarm, going to three . . .”
“. . . and the mayor will make a statement later today about this sad turn of events,” Kiernan continued. “The coffeehouse was closed at the time of the blaze and no customers or employees were injured. But one of New York’s Bravest lost his life . . .”
I glanced at Mike. We both tensed, waiting. Finally, the still, color photograph came up on the TV screen—a picture of the dead man.
I stumbled backward, fell into a chair.
“. . . best known for his appearance as Mr. March in last year’s famous FDNY calendar, Bigsby Brewer died instantly after jumping from the building’s roof. The cause of the fire is deemed suspicious and is under investigation.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THREE days later, a public funeral was held in Queens. Dante, Madame, and I attended. The mayor was there and the city commissioners. The cardinal came, the FDNY Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, the local press, and every member of Bigsby Brewer’s beloved firehouse.
The pomp and turnout were overwhelming, the grieving genuine. Thousands of firefighters from every borough showed up in dress blues. The small army couldn’t fit inside the church so they lined up in formation on the streets outside, where cops redirected traffic for hours, all the way to the burial ceremony in Calvary Cemetery on Laurel Hill Boulevard.
The younger firefighters looked steely, the older ones visibly haunted, unshed tears glazing their eyes, tense expressions barely masking rekindled memories. Back in fall 2001, this city had seen hundreds of funerals just like this one, final farewells to those who’d answered their last alarms.
Now it was Bigsby’s turn. And on the morning of his funeral, that’s when it hit me. I’d heard his last alarm.
THE cluster of days that followed blew by like fast-moving storms. Time felt compressed, and so did I. Tensions were so high that most mornings I woke up feeling as though I’d slept with my head inside a panini maker.
The Blend’s business went on as usual—morning crush, lunchtime takeouts, evening regulars—but just as Mike promised, detectives from the Sixth took shifts in plain clothes while sector cars drove by so often I was starting to feel like I managed a gangland hangout.
There were no more threats, however, and no more coffeehouse fires. My two follow-up calls to Rossi and the precinct detectives handling my case yielded polite but completely fruitless conversations.
Madame continued to spend part of every day at the ICU, reading the newspapers aloud to Enzo. He was still comatose, but his condition was stable, at least. Until he woke up—if he ever did—the doctors wouldn’t be sure of the extent of his stroke damage.
I met with Valerie Noonan twice (in microbrew bars, her choice) to finalize details for the bake sale. Mike and I managed to meet a few times for dinner, too—Cornish hens with coffee glaze and Cumberland sauce; an outstanding recipe for Triple-Threat Firehouse Penne Mac ’n’ Cheese (that James shared with me); steak with a Jim Beam reduction; and Korean-style fried wings (my first attempt to identify the ingredients and technique behind those delectable Unidentified Flying Chickens).
As usual, Mike swooned for my cooking, but his undercover operation near the Williamsburg Bridge sapped so much of his time and energy that we failed to connect beyond the dinner table.
No more spicy-sweet 4 AM wake up calls. In the wee hours before dawn, Mike would come back to the Blend and relieve Matt from his night vigil of global coffee trading. Then Mike would come up to my bedroom, collapse onto the mattress, and by the time he stirred again I was already at work, pulling espressos . . .
FINALLY, the day of the big bake sale arrived.
Val had chosen the location and it was perfect—Union Square Park, an island of green space ringed by skyscrapers. The park was three city blocks long and the northern perimeter was frequently used to stage open-air farmers’ markets. That was the real genius of the location. New Yorkers were already used to stopping by the area for food purchases so the turnout was practically guaranteed.
Early that morning, volunteers from the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund began setting up their tents and tables. Matt and I spent two hours transporting supplies and erecting our little blue Village Blend stand. Now he was gone—off